Broken Prince: A New Adult Romance Novel (6 page)

Crossing the street, I looked up at the large building where Csilla's family lived. The apartment was on the top floor, and when I entered the building the doorman waved me in. Seeing my hesitation, he asked me where I was going. I responded in halting Hungarian, and he led me back to an elevator, pressing the buzzer. A woman's voice answered, and he spoke to her rapidly; I could only make out a few words: "an American girl."

"What do you want?" the woman's voice said in clear English. I realized she was speaking to me.

"Mrs. Deveny? I...I'm Brynn Tomlin," I said. "Mark—uh, Mark from the Academy—he told me that I should talk to you. About my mom."

There was a brief pause and then the elevator door buzzed open. The doorman waved me in. Inside there was only a single button. I pressed it and the doors closed, leaving me alone inside the elevator. The platform jerked upwards, and my stomach was left behind as the elevator rose rapidly up toward the top floor. Toward the answer to some of my questions. I had been waiting a long time for these answers, and now that I was so close I felt queasy.

The elevator doors opened, and I stepped into the apartment—there was no hallway, just a place to leave my shoes at the doorway next to an expansive living room. The elevator doors closed behind me and I jumped as the machinery started up and left me alone in the middle of somebody's house. The sound of a television echoed through the apartment. How strange. A private elevator to an entire floor? I had never seen anything like it.

"Ms. Tomlin? Come in," a voice called from around the corner. I slipped off my shoes and walked through the living room. Everything was neat and tidy. Expensive-looking paintings in gilded frames adorned the walls, and the carpet was so plush my toes sank into it as I walked in my socks.

The kitchen was around the corner, and the lady who sat at the stool in front of the counter could have been Csilla's older sister. She had the same long blonde hair, the same delicate features. In front of her was a glass of red wine. She muted the television, swiveled around on her stool, and stood up, coming forward to greet me with kisses on both cheeks. Marta had greeted me the same way when I arrived in Hungary, but Mrs. Deveny's kisses were perfunctory, quick and efficient and over with before I could return them.

"You're the girl whose mother died," she said, returning to her stool. She stumbled against the counter and caught herself, easing her body up onto the stool carefully.

"Yes." I thought to myself that that was my old identity: I used to only be the girl whose mother died. At school, kids who before might have teased me for being smart and unpopular just stared and whispered. I preferred their teasing. I had grown past that, though, and when I went to college I reinvented myself as somebody new. Nobody knew about my mother except for Mark. And now Csilla. I don't know why it irritated me so much to have her know about my mother, but it did. I didn't want her pity. I didn't want anyone's pity.

"Mark told us about you. You're friends with him, yes?" From her glance it seemed she wanted to make sure we were friends only, nothing more. Her eyes were glazed. I realized that she was drunk.

"Yes, we go to college together." We
used to
go to college together, rather. I wasn't sure if I'd ever go back. Mrs. Deveny sat down on her stool and sipped at her wine. She didn't offer me a seat or a drink, but I slid onto the stool next to her anyway.

"Your mother's case was a strange one," Mrs. Deveny said. "What do you know about it?"

"Nothing," I said. My hands were damp with sweat.

"Nothing?" Her voice said that she didn't believe me. She took another sip of wine and I wondered how much she had drunk already. It wasn't even noon yet.

"I know she was killed," I said. "But I was only eight when it happened. My father just told me that she had died. He didn't—he didn't tell me anything else. It was only when I was older that he even told me she had been killed."

"It was a gruesome murder," Mrs. Deveny said. She swirled the glass in her hand, saying the words without any hint of emotion, as flatly as if she had been talking about the heat outside.  I hated her then, hated her drunkenness, hated having to ask her about my mother. I wanted to turn and run back out the way I had come. I shifted in my stool and swallowed hard.

"What can you tell me about it?" I asked, as calmly as I could.

"I didn't work the case, but I was working there when it happened. It was part of a series of murders. That's why the information was never released to the press. They wanted to make sure that they stayed ahead of your mother's killer. They didn't want the evidence leaked."

"Why not?"

"The murderer—they thought he would kill again, and they didn't want him to know that they had found your mother's body until after they could catch him. And it worked, at least partially."

"They found him? The murderer?" My face turned hot and my heart pounded in my ears. They had caught him. The killer. I would know who did it.

"No," Mrs. Deveny said. "They didn't catch him. But he didn't kill again. Your mother was his last victim."

"Oh." My face fell.

"There's a few boxes of files relating to the case at the police station," Mrs. Deveny said. "I wouldn't think you would want to see them, though."

"I would like to," I said. "I...I want to know what happened."

"Your choice," Mrs. Deveny said. "You're next of kin and an adult. You have every right to see the files. Let me know when you want to go to the station and I'll have the filing assistant pull them for you."

"Can I go today?"

"Today?" Mrs. Deveny raised her eyebrows. "I don't think I can pull them by today. But I'll call in and have them ready for you by noon on Monday."

"Thank you," I said. "That would be great. Thank you."

Mrs. Deveny took another sip of wine, the red liquid disappearing from the glass between her lips. I realized she was waiting for me to leave. I stood up uncertainly from my seat. She stood as well, kissed me on both cheeks in goodbye. Her lips were cold and smelled of alcohol.

"Goodbye," Mrs. Deveny said. "And good luck. I hope you find whatever it is you're looking for." She reached over the kitchen counter for the bottle of wine, and poured herself another glass, almost to the rim.

"Mrs. Deveny?" A thought had just come into my mind.

"Yes?" Her nostrils flared impatiently.

"How do they know he never killed again?"

"What do you mean?" A frown passed over her face and she shook it off.

"You said that the murderer didn't kill again. How do they know he wasn't responsible for any other deaths? I mean, surely there have been other unsolved murders since then."

Mrs. Deveny turned in her stool to look directly at me, and the blankness in her eyes chilled my nerves.

"When you see the files, you'll understand," she said. "Now if you'll excuse me, I can't answer any more of your questions right now. I'm quite busy."

"Yes, of course," I said, although I was sure that her business involved only a glass of wine. "Thank you again. Goodbye."

She said nothing as I left, just watched me leave. I pulled my shoes back on and pressed the elevator button. The doors closed behind me on the elegant living room, and as they closed I heard the television come back on.

At the bottom of the stairs I thanked the doorman and walked out into the street.

"What are you here for?"

I turned around and saw Csilla sitting just behind me, on the edge of the stoop next to the building I had just come out of. A cigarette dangled from her limp fingers and her legs swung against the stoop. She folded the newspaper she was holding and tossed it aside.

"Hi," I said nervously. "I was just here to see your mom."

"About what?"

"About my mother's death," I said, my courage coming back to me. If she wanted to be nosy, I wouldn't stop her. Mark had already told her everything, probably. "How it happened. Your mom was working at the police station when she was murdered. I was just asking her if she knew anything."

"Was she drunk yet?" Csilla asked.

"What?"

Csilla took a drag off of her cigarette and blew it up over my head.

"My mom," she said. "Was she drunk yet when you went up there?"

"It's only ten in the morning," I said, avoiding the question.

"Yeah? So?"

"She seemed fine," I lied.

"She's a bitch," Csilla said, looking away.

I bit my lip to keep from making the snide remark running through my head:
Must run in the family, then.

"Your dad's the Academy director, right?" I asked politely.

"Yeah. He's worse than her," Csilla said, looking back at me. I held her gaze. If there was someone who knew something about bad fathers, it was me.

"I'm sorry," I said. "My dad's an asshole, too."

"What did he do?" she asked.

"He left me when my mom died," I said.

"So you were an orphan? Did you live in an orphanage?" Csilla asked. She took another long drag off of her cigarette.

"I stayed with my grandmother," I said.

Csilla shook her head.

"My dad's almost the same. He's never at home. You can't trust guys, anyway. They're all assholes."

"You can trust Mark." The words slipped off of my tongue, and Csilla swiveled her head toward me.

"Do you like him?" Her voice hid malice, thinly veiled.

"He's just a friend," I said carefully. "But he's a good friend. He's loyal. You can trust him."

"He's alright. Not that cute, but smart." Csilla stretched her head back, her face lit by the sun, her skirt swirling around her crossed legs. She closed her eyes. She could have been on the cover of a fashion magazine. If Mark thought she was anything other than a pretty face with a mean person behind it, he was wrong. I was about to say goodbye when she spoke again.

"You're fucking Dr. Herceg, right?" she asked.

I flushed, the blood rising to my face instantly.

"I—I—"

“That's okay, I get it. He's hot, if you don't mind the scars," she said.

"I don't." My heart was racing, and my hands clenched into fists.

She flicked ash off of the end of her cigarette.

"Hey, whatever suits you. You're not the first kid he's screwed around with, though." She looked up at me, a sly smile on her face.

The adrenaline rushing through my body made me tremble with rage. I wanted to hit her, to punch her face through the wall. I tilted my chin up.

"I'm not exactly a kid."

"She
was, though." Csilla picked up the newspaper she had put aside and held it out to me. "Can you read Hungarian?"

"What's that?" I asked. I didn't reach out to take the paper. I wasn't sure I wanted to read it.

"You're not curious? There's a whole spread today on your sweetheart, Eliot Herceg. How he fucked an underage escort and got away with nothing more than a slap on the wrist."

"Nice rumors," I said, trying to keep my calm. "You should stop reading so many tabloids."

"It's not a rumor," Csilla said. She stood up from the stoop and took a step toward me. "I remember when he confessed. Ten years ago. Every newspaper covered it. You can look it up." She looked me up and down. "He likes them young, I guess."

"Shut up," I said. It came out a whisper.

"There's a picture of you in the news today, too, in a bikini." She held the paper in front of my face, taunting me. "You know, if you want to workout at a gym, I know a fantastic place downtown. They'll really help you take some of those extra pounds off."

I grabbed the newspaper from her and crumpled it in my hand. She waited, tense, as if she was waiting for me to hit her.

I bit my lip and fought back tears. My ears were still buzzing. It couldn't be true. I turned away.

"Bye," Csilla said. "I'll tell Mark you said hi."

I turned back to her. She leaned against the stoop, the cigarette in her fingers down to its final ashes. Smiling sweetly, she took one final drag and ground the butt under her heel.

"I'm sorry," I said. "About your parents. My mom was wonderful."

Her smile faltered for a second, and I turned my back, walking away before she could respond. When I reached the other side of the street and looked back, she was gone.

CHAPTER NINE

Eliot

Marta picked Eliot up in a white Ferrari. She leaned over the center console to kiss him hello on the cheek.

"This is new," he said, buckling his seatbelt. "Was the Lamborghini too slow for you?"

"That one was black," Marta said, waving her hand in the air. "Summertime is no time for a black car."

He looked at the dash. "Does the speedometer really go up to 200?"

"Don't worry," Marta said. "I'll drive slowly." She glanced over at him.

"You really don't have to do this," Eliot said.

Marta laughed.

"If I didn't drag you to a salon, you'd probably cut your own hair," she said.

"Clare used to cut it," Eliot said. He cursed himself for bringing her up, but Marta's comment about driving had made him remember her. So many things here made him remember her.

"My stylist is wonderful," Marta said, changing the subject quickly as she pulled out of the driveway. "You'll look fantastic."

"I had better," Eliot said. "I'm taking Brynn out for dinner tonight."

"Oh, is that so?" Marta asked. "That must be why she asked me to go shopping."

"She did what?" Eliot frowned. It was unlike Brynn to volunteer to buy new clothes. She made a fuss about not even being able to wear all of the new clothes she had.

"We must have bought her ten new outfits," Marta said brightly. "It was so much fun! I hope she wears the blue dress tonight. It sets off her eyes so well."

"I'll make sure to ask her to wear it," Eliot said. He didn't want to press the issue. He could always ask Brynn later.

They chatted the whole way down into the city. Marta complained about how reporters had been covering the National Assembly's budgetary spending, and Otto was one of the Assembly members under the spotlight.